Alone - A Series of Harry Potter Vignettes
by Fyrie
Summary: I'm working on scene-setting and character and how better to do it than in a series of vignettes of single characters? Three up so far.
1. Alone - Why These Vignettes?

Alone â€" The Explanation  
  
Since I've been writing fanfiction for the last few years, I've been told I have quite a knack of writing many characters from many fandoms in a reasonably accurate fashions, but since I started attempting Harry Potter fics, I'm not as sure about the characters and the way I write them.  
  
The only one I know I can write is Snape, merely because he's sarcastc and I am too, which is always a big help. Any of the other characters, I am rather dubious about my interpretations of now, which is why I seldom post HP fics.  
  
I also have a horrible weakness when I write and that is that I don't seem to use enough description or visual detail, while I can provide a lot of dialogue and play with an interesting quota of characters.  
  
The vignettes that I put together are to help me work on and develop both, so please bear with me. Each one is 1000 words exactly (no matter what the word counter thing says - I should know, cos I write to the thousand word mark and make sure it stays there) and has very little â€" if any â€" dialogue.  
  
Hopefully, at least a few of you Harry Potter fans out there will read and review for me and tell me if I'm going along the right lines for the kind of descriptive work and character styles. If a character doesn't sound accurate, please feel free to tell me.  
  
Any help will be gratefully received.  
  
Thankin' you. 


	2. Alone - Snape

There was the soft, repetitive drip-drip-drip of an unblocked leak from the pipe that led to the gargoyle's mouth, over the empty basin. To anyone else, it would be irritating, but the only figure residing in the dungeon was not simply anyone.  
  
Seated at the desk beneath the single window, high in the wall of the dungeon, Severus Snape was intent on his task. A single drop of clear liquid dripped into the small cauldron that was bubbling quietly before him.  
  
Several vivid, poison-green sparks flared from the potion, a spiral of violet smoke curling from it before disipating in the chilly air of the dungeon.  
  
A faint smile curled the lips of the potions teacher, as he replaced the stopper in the small bottle held in his thin hand. Lowering it onto the desk, he picked up his wand and touched it to the heart of the flames.  
  
The blue flame darkened to black, crackling softly.  
  
Leaving the substance to simmer, Snape turned into the beam of light that cut down from the high window. It was evening, the light a fading gold, sliced with shadow by the bars of metal crossing the opening.  
  
A grimace of pain crossed his face and he twisted the button of his cuff undone. Rolling the sleeve of his robes - and the shirt beneath - up his left arm, he looked down at the vivid mark that was still visible on his pale, sallow skin.  
  
With the tip of his fingertip, he traced the red-on-black outline of the skull with the snake protruding from it's gaping mouth. It had burnt fiercely in the hours following the events of the Tri-Wizard Tournament and continued to do so now.  
  
However, that pain was surpassed by far by the agony that still burned through his very core of his bones. His...Master had not been amused by his absence from the gathering following his return.  
  
His welcoming gift to embrace the Potions Professor back to the fold had been painful enough to emphasise his displeasure.  
  
"You must admit, Severus," He murmured to himself. "You were a fool to believe he would let you go unpunished."  
  
Unattended the potion continued to bubble softly, the occasional splash hissing as it met the flickering flames.  
  
Rising, the Potions Master drifted absently over to the basin beneath the gargoyle's head. It was almost a tradition, this, he mused. Or, at least it had been in the old days, even before he had changed sides.  
  
Twisting the ear of the Gargoyle with a creak, a gush of water spurted from it's mouth and down into the carved stone bowl beneath it. Drops splashed over the rim, soaking his robes, but he didn't care.  
  
His eyes pressed shut, he grit his teeth and thrust his bared arm under the icy spray. A cry of pain escaped him, near-transparent wisps of steam rising from the skull marking on his arm.  
  
While it temporarily burned like sulphur, it meant that the pain of the Mark faded more quickly.  
  
The hiss of the water on his skin softened, the pain less intense. Snape risked a look at his arm, the skin shaded a faint pink from the pressure of the water. The Mark had faded to the familiar black now, no longer red and gleaming.  
  
With his other shaking hand, he used his robes to gingerly dab the excess fluid from his arm, wincing as pain lanced through him. He rolled the sleeve of his shirt back down, gasping between his teeth as the starch- stiffened fabric brushed the tingling skin.  
  
He tried to fasten the small, round button at the cuff.  
  
His normally-dexterous fingers twitched, shaking uncontrollably. The pain would fade soon, but the...frustration at his inability to fulfill such a menial task would remain with the along with the after-effects of his least favourite curse.  
  
Cruciatus.  
  
Giving up on the button, he crossed the floor, back to his desk, where the cauldron was still simmering quietly. The dungeon swam in his vision and he immediately realised that he had tried to walk too fast.  
  
It left the victim weak. Almost like Muggle flu, he supposed. Everything ached so much more though. Breathing was a challenge. Standing, even more so.  
  
Bracing both palms on the surface of the desk, he hung his head, drawing several slow, painfully deep breaths. His ribs ached, his fingertips whitening against the desktop as he tried to bring his surroundings back into focus.  
  
Black eyes stared fixedly at the cauldron and, despite the bolts of pain that came with every breath, a small smile lifted his lips up slightly.  
  
Another part of the ritual.  
  
A ripple of poison green smoke uncoiled from the belly of the small, pewter cauldron, serpentlike. He shivered with the amusing irony of it.  
  
"Perhaps, this time..." He murmured quietly, retrieving his wand and placing the tip near the rim of the cauldron. A soft incantation lifted the contents of the cauldron in a ball of viscous yellowish fluid, depositing it into a shallow bowl on the desk.  
  
Returning to his stool beneath the windows, he sat down slowly and gazed at the concoction that lay before him. It would be so simple to drink it, to reach oblivion, with no more pain, no more nights of agony that would no doubt come, with his...Master's increasing strength.  
  
The sour smell reached his nostrils, stinging.  
  
He regarded the cooling substance.  
  
Small curls of green steam rose from it.  
  
He had until it cooled to make his decision.  
  
A decision that he had delayed time and time again.  
  
The sand in the timer that stood on the desk had run dry by the time he looked away from the chilling liquid.  
  
His hand moved.  
  
The bowl skidded off the desk, shattering on the black stone floor. The poison melted into the cracks between the slabs and vanished.  
  
"The coward's way out." He said to himself with disdain, rising and exiting the dungeon, closing the door softly behind him. 


	3. Alone - Hermione

She was barely visible.

The table was the largest one, slotted between two large, well-stocked shelves of literature about magic. The dark colour of the wood had faded in stripes with the sun's rays, the eight chairs lining each side in the same condition.

Books of all shapes and sizes were piled around her, towering in magically supported heaps, the parchment of most of them yellowed with age. A dusty, leather scent hung in the air, tainted with the barely perceptible smell of ink.

The girl at the wide, oaken table was alone.

Her satchel lay at her feet, her robes hanging over the back of the chair she was seated on. Clad in her school shirt and skirt, her sleeves were rolled up, her face bent over the thick tome she had acquired from the shelves around her.

The afternoon sunlight spread from the wide windows and between the shelves, illuminating the immense volume that was lying before her, her delicate fingers moving on the markings on the page.

Her fingertips were stained with ink from the quill gripped in her other hand, her dark eyes moving down the pages with the swiftness of one familiar with the art of reading and finding the necessary information within a mass of script.

A tall, thin woman was moving around the shelves, replacing returned books without so much as a curious look in the direction of the girl at the table, the bowed, bushy-haired head one far too familiar for her.

The gold-feathered quill in her hand was laid down with a soft click, as she struggled to close the weighty book with an audible thump. Giving the oblivious librarian an apologetic look, she stood up, pushing her hair back from her face.

Hoisting the book off the table, Hermione Granger made her way around to the shelf to replace it and – in the process of it – managed to find three others that looked useful.

Returning to the table, she examined the cover of one of the three: Dark Creatures and their habits. On the front of the nearly-black, wooden cover, there was an unflattering engraving of a werewolf.

Hermione tutted, sitting down and pulling her legs up underneath her. Opening the book, she skimmed through the musty pages. The parchment was so old that she was certain it would crumble at her touch.

With every other book she had read on the subject, werewolves were criticised, despised and feared, but few of the books seemed to notice that the werewolves were – in fact – humans for most of the time.

In fact, only one had noted it, without blaming the afflicted victim.

Retrieving her quill, the young witch looked down at her notes. Her writing was neat and organised, but she was running out of space in her notebook for the notes for the essay Snape had given them in Lupin's absence.

Leaving the latest book in her lap, she reached down and fumbled through her satchel. A line of stitches ran up the seam, where she had been forced to reinforce her repair spell, just in case of emergencies.

Her hand closed over the small, blue diary that contained her timetable and the homework deadlines. Opening it, she flicked through to the dates for the next week and placed it on the table. 

With her quill, she scratched in a note, for the Defence Against The Dark Arts class, to ask Professor Lupin about whether the full moon was known to affect any other so-called dark creatures.

Absently, she noticed that they had just passed a full moon, the previous week.

Leaving her diary lying open on the chair next to hers, just in case she thought of anything else to ask, she lifted the Dark Creatures and Their Habits book onto the table, marking the place with her finger and etching a new heading in her notepad.

So far, she had used ten heavy library books in addition to the compulsary ones, each of them filling at least a page with notes.

Flicking carefully to the chapter about werewolves, touching the fragile pages as much as she dared, she opened onto a page with a painted picture of a man halfway through his change into the wolf. 

He was hunched over his bent legs with hair sprouting on his bare shoulders and arched back. The expression on his contorted face suggested that he was in a great deal of pain, his hands looking like they had been stretched.

The thing that caught her attention, though, was the round disc that represented the full moon in the dark sky of the picture, surrounded by a hazy mist of wispy cloud.

A white disc...like a white orb...

Hermione gasped.

Snatching her diary, she flicked back to the previous week, checking the nights that the full moon had appeared, then comparing them with the dates that Lupin had apparently been ill.

"No..." She muttered, staring down at the book, then at her notes.

Surely it wasn't possible that...

Kneeling on her chair, using one hand to keep her unruly hair back from her face, she leaned over her notes, one forefinger running down the words, skimming through them with increasing agitation.

It all made sense, she finally had to admit, down on her heels.

Her robe had fallen off the back of her chair, taking several smaller volumes with it, but she didn't even notice.

Why he had seen an orb when they faced the boggart. Why he looked ill so regularly. Why Snape had given them this particular essay to do in Professor Lupin's absence.

Diping her quill in the ink and opened her notebook on a blank sheet, to write one line, to convince herself she wasn't just dreaming it.

'Professor Lupin is a werewolf.'

Then, she tore the page from her notebook and crushed it into a ball.

He wanted to keep it a secret. She didn't blame him. 

If he could, then she could too.


	4. Alone - Ron

There was silence in the boys' dormitory, but for soft snores from Neville's bed, the thick drapes surrounding the beds muting the sound, which all the other occupants were immensely grateful for.  
  
Only one of the beds was not occupied.  
  
The drapes surrounding it gaped open on the empty mattress, moonlight highlighting the tangled white sheets and deep red and gold blankets where someone had clearly been tossing and turning.  
  
It's owner was sitting on the window-seat, staring out across the wide grounds of the castle, his hands resting in the lap of his too-short, Paisley pajamas. The half-moon outside peered from behind a cloud, casting a pale blue wash over his freckled face.  
  
His dark eyes were troubled, his brow furrowed with thoughts that he didn't really want to be having, but that were keeping him awake nonetheless.  
  
Raising a hand, he placed it against the cool glass, watching with absent interest as a misty outline appeared on the night-chilled pane.  
  
Withdrawing his hand, he watched the misty imprint linger and slowly fade.  
  
He did the same again, smiling faintly as the same thing occurred.  
  
Even the simple things posed as a good distraction, especially now.  
  
His sleepless gaze swept across the silent room to the other curtained- off beds, to one of them in particular. The one that had â€" until this evening â€" contained the best friend that he had ever had.  
  
Harry Potter.  
  
The famous Harry Potter.  
  
Everyone had heard of him, of course.  
  
The Boy Who Lived, the sole vanquisher of You-Know-Who, the saviour of the Philosopher's Stone, the Slayer of the Monster of Slytherin, the brave, muggle-tormented orphan, the loyal friend, the good wizard.  
  
And now...now, Tri-Wizard Champion.  
  
Ron turned his face sharply away from the curtained-off bed, gritting his teeth, seized by the temptation to hurl something breakable against the wall or out of the window to watch it plummet to the rocky ground below.  
  
It just wasn't fair!  
  
Bunching his hands into fists in the fabric of his pajamas, he forced back tears of frustration, wishing that he could explain to his...yes, his friend, why he had reacted like he had. Why he had acted like everybody else had.  
  
It was simple.  
  
It was envy.  
  
Yes, Harry was his friend, his best friend and the one person who would give his life for outside his family, but it didn't mean you couldn't be jealous of them when they get to do everything and have everything and you...well...don't.  
  
He wanted to explain everything, but it was impossible.  
  
Harry couldn't understand.  
  
He had always been on his own, no competition from anyone, no standard to live up to and no one to outdo.  
  
He didn't have five elder brothers, all of whom were better than him at everything. Bill and Percy, both head boys and incredibly smart. Charlie, Fred and George, the family Quidditch players. What had he done that was worth anything at school?  
  
Nothing.  
  
Well, one measly chess game, which had helped to save the Philospher's Stone from Voldemort, but who got all the credit for that? Who, despite the fact that they had all got points for the house cup, was still credited as the one who saved the stone?  
  
Only the Boy-Who-Lived.  
  
He hadn't done it on purpose, of course he hadn't, but it was the fame that came with the name of Harry Potter.  
  
Sitting back against the cold wall of the window seat, Ron pressed his brow against the chilly glass, his eyes closed.  
  
Harry had somehow managed to get his name in the Tri-Wizard tournament.  
  
He wouldn't have done it without telling him â€" Ron â€" how...would he?  
  
The shock on his dark-haired friend's face when his name had been called said that he would never have put his name in, but there he was again, entered in the most famous wizarding tournament and more famous than anybody else in it already.  
  
Sighing, Ron swung off the window seat and padded back across the wooden floor towards his bed, a muffled hoot surprising him as he opened the thick, red drapes to climb back into the four poster.  
  
"Pig?"  
  
The ruffled little owl fluttered out of a tangle of folds in the curtains and fell into Ron's open hand with a feeble hoot, his legs in the air.  
  
Apparently he had been stuck there since Ron had first got up to sit by the window. The redhaired boy could remember hearing a muffled squawk when he had got up, but it hadn't registered as important.  
  
For the first time since the Goblet of Fire had gone out, Ron felt a genuine smile cross his face. Carefully cradling his little owl in his left hand, he carried it over to the water basin and helped the tiny bird to drink from a small handful of water scooped in his right palm.  
  
Hooting happily, apparently recovered from his spell in his curtain- prison, Pig took off, fluttering up towards the rafters in the roof that he had made his home in, because he was too small for the Owlery.  
  
Ron had to smile again.  
  
Despite the fact that Pigwidgeon looked utterly ridiculous and seemed totally useless, Ron knew he would hate to ever get rid of the miniscule owl, because he could always count on him for comfort and friendship.  
  
"Its like me and Harry." He murmured to himself as he crawled into his bed, pulling the drapes closed so that no chink of moonlight could even cut in. "I'm like Harry's version of Pig...useless and ridiculous and..." He yawned, punching his pillows. "And stupid..."  
  
He was asleep before he realised that he had just given the reason why he still was friends with Harry.  
  
While he might not be at all good at Quidditch like Harry or his brothers, or be Head Boy like Percy and Bill, or be very smart like Hermione, he was the one that provided the very thing Harry longed for most: comfort, companionship and friendship. 


End file.
